


5 Times Pete Fell Asleep Alone and 1 Time He Didn't

by brightblackholes



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 5+1 Things, Insomnia, M/M, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, warnings will be posted before each chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightblackholes/pseuds/brightblackholes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep has never come easy for Pete, especially when he's alone.  Patrick helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2001

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innstarlight/gifts).



> Part one of six.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2001

Pete glanced and the clock, the electric numbers clear and bright in the otherwise dark room. Not even lights from the street outside made it past his curtains in a desperate attempt to get his brain to shut off and his breathing to even out.

_1:32 am._

He had been trying to sleep since around 10, because he was tired enough to pass out standing up but apparently not tired enough to get actual sleep.

Insomnia stinks. 0 out of 10; Pete would not recommend at all.

He glanced at his phone sitting on the nightstand, wondering if it would be worth it to try and text Patrick. They’d only known each other for about two months, but Pete was pretty sure Patrick was the best person in the world. The kid was still in high school, but his voice was going to get the out of this place, and his understanding of music blew Pete’s mind, and he could be a sassy little shit but he also put up with Pete and returned his texts even when Pete sends 50 of them over the course of the school day because sometimes Pete would share stupid pictures of dogs with the caption “almost as cute as u” or just mindlessly ramble on about whatever popped into his head. In short, Pete really loved Patrick, and if there was one person who might possibly be awake and help him shut down it would be him.

Of course, Patrick might actually not be awake and Pete might be stuck alone with his brain for who-knows-how-much-longer, but there was no use in not trying.

_Pete: trick u awake_

He waited for a minute, trying not to be too disappointed the longer it became until the device lit up and vibrated in his hand.

_Patrick: yeah whats up_

_Pete: nothin can’t sleep_

_Pete: wbu_

_Pete: did i wake u up_

_Patrick: no chemistry homework_

_Pete: k_

_Pete: wish i had chem homwork_

A second later, his phone lit up and started blaring the most annoying ringtone in the history of the world. Pete would have to change that soon, probably to something annoyingly sexual that would drive Patrick up the wall if he knew. Pete barely hit the ‘talk’ button before the boy’s voice came through.

“You once ranted to me for two hours about how much you hated chemistry when you were in highschool and how glad you were that as a poli sci major you didn’t have to take it now. Are you okay?” Patrick asked, sounding exasperated and concerned and also very, very exhausted.

“Loaded question; you should know that by now. And you were totally asleep just now, I did wake you up!”

“Doesn’t matter. What’s the most not-okay this time?”

Pete groaned in frustration. “I just can’t sleep! I’m exhausted, and I have all the lights off and I even tried that warm milk thing but it’s _not working_ and I feel like I’ve been awake for 5 days because I basically have and my mind just won’t shut off, but Patrick… Patrick it’s not even scary like usual. Like, it’s not bad thoughts that are keeping me up and making me hate everything, it’s just empty. Blank. And I really don’t like it, because if my mind is blank then why can’t I sleep and if I’m not filled with words trying to claw their way out then what am I?”

Sometimes Pete wasn’t even sure what was bothering him until Patrick asked and he figured it out mid sentence. It was a testament to Patrick that he never ran, not even the first time, just took a moment to think digest everything and chose his next words carefully.

“Insomnia works in weird ways, Pete,” he said slowly. “Even if you’re not swimming in your thoughts like usual, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll shut off and let you rest. And your words might be a big part of you, but they don’t define you. You’re still a great, fully complete person just because they took a break. Besides, they’ll come back. I’m sure of it.”

Pete sighed, but he did feel a bit reassured. Patrick could be very calming when he wanted to.

“So, are you still feeling enthusiastic about chemistry?” Patrick asked. “Because I actually do have some homework for that class that I haven’t done yet.”

“ _No_ , no chem, I beg. Anything but chemistry.”

“Well, what do you want to talk about then? The whale crisis?”

Pete was quiet for a moment.

“Could you… sing to me? Please?”

“Oh,” Patrick said, and he sounded taken aback and Pete had just messed up, he probably just messed up _everythingohnoitwasgoingsowelland_ \-- “Sure. Okay. What did you want to hear?”

Pete let out a breath. “Anything. Your voice is angelic; it doesn’t matter what you’re singing.”

There was some shuffling on the other end, and Patrick was probably turning bright red like he did whenever Pete complimented him like that (which Pete always felt ridiculously proud of whenever he witnessed it). After a second, a soft guitar chord reached his ears, then a quick scale to warm up.

“Okay, so, um… here you go I guess,” Patrick said nervously, and Pete found it a bit endearing that he still had stage fright even though it was just the two of them and Pete had literally compared him to an angel less than 30 seconds ago. A chord was strummed softly, probably because Patrick was still a kid living with his parents who were most likely asleep, then another before Patricks voice started leaking through the phone, soft and a bit wobbly and so extremely perfect.

_“Ground control to Major Tom…”_

“Of course you picked a Bowie song,” Pete murmured, laying down and closing his eyes to try and listen better. It wasn’t the same as having Patrick actually there, but it was the best he could get under the circumstances and for now, it was enough. Pete let the music and Patrick’s voice fill him up and swallow him whole, and he felt himself smile.

“Wish you were here, ‘Trick,” he breathed. Patrick didn’t stop singing or give any indication that he had heard, and Pete was asleep by the end of the song.

_“The stars look very different today…”_


	2. 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> late 2004

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal thoughts

Pete looked down on the street below. The cars crawling by looked so different from above, so small and insignificant. Lights were farther away, and even from only ten stories up everything seemed disconnected.

He could do it now. The alley had a clear spot where no one would be walking, and the hotel was high enough. It would work. There wasn’t even a railing he would have to climb over.

He thought of the person who would hear the fall and come over to find him dead. He thought of the show they had to play tomorrow and the band having to be told that he wouldn’t be making it.

No. Not tonight. The urge wasn’t strong enough, and the circumstances weren’t right. Perhaps if they had landed at the hotel last week, when it was really bad and he would do anything to make it stop, the answer would be different. But for tonight, he was going to to stay alive.

If he died, he didn’t think it would be because he jumped off a building anyway. He’d probably fall apart quietly and just go to far.

“Pete!”

He turned at the familiar voice, a bit surprised to see Patrick emerging from the door to the roof, his face relieved. He hadn’t exactly expected anyone to go looking for him, and if they did he hadn’t expected them to check the roof.

“Pete, thank goodness. We were all worried. You can’t just disappear like that and not answer any of our calls or texts,” the younger man said, coming over to him. Pete looked down at his pocket where his phone was.

“I don’t remember turning it off. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, just don’t do it again, okay?” he said, coming to stand next to him on the roof. Patrick glanced at the ground below and turned a bit pale. “Come on, let’s back up a bit. This is making me nervous.” He took a step back and pulled Pete with him, just enough where he can’t see the street below from where they are.

“Hey.”

Pete snapped his gaze to Patrick, who was studying his face with concern, a hand on his arm.

“What’s up, Pete? What were you doing up here?”

“I just wanted some space. It was getting stuffy in the hotel.”

Patrick kept looking at him like he was trying to stare straight into his soul and Pete wanted to look away, but knew that Patrick would know something was more wrong than usual if he did.

“Are you sure?”

Pete looked away finally.

“It gets too loud sometimes, Patrick. You know that,” he whispered.

“Now I’m concerned.”

“I’m just being emo. I’ll be better tomorrow,” he said, turning away fully and walking towards the edge by the ally. Well, he’d probably be better tomorrow. He’s usually okay during shows, at least.

“Sure you will, but I’d prefer you’re better tonight. What can I do?” Patrick asked, following him and tugging on his arm to turn him around again. Pete shrugged. “Do you want me to leave you alone or do you want me to stay here?”

Pete thought. He wanted Patrick to stay, he really did. He already felt a little bit better just because Patrick took the initiative to look for him and ask him how he could help, a bit less like he’s a waste of space and a bit calmer. But it was late, and they had a show tomorrow and Patrick can be a diva when he doesn’t get enough sleep, even if he doesn’t try to be. Pete didn’t want to be a burden and make him stay up later than he already was.

“You can go to bed, if you want. I just need space.”

“Are you sure?”

Patrick always asked that, sometimes more than once. There were days where Pete found it annoying if he’s in a certain mood, but mostly it was reassuring.

“Yeah. I’ll go back in sometime,” he sighed.

“Sometime soon, right?” Patrick asked, somewhat sternly. Pete nodded, and Patrick let go of his arm. “Do you want me to tell Andy not to wait up?” Pete nodded again. He was rooming with Andy tonight, and he loved Andy, he really, really did, but Patrick sometimes let him slip into bed next to him and cuddle and Andy didn’t.

Wow. How clingy can a person be?

“Okay. Don’t stay out too late. Try to get some sleep, too. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Patrick said, before giving him a soft smile and turning to go.

“Yeah, see you.” Pete didn’t correct him and say that they’ll see each other later today because it was past midnight, and he didn’t tell him that in all honesty he really wasn’t sure if he was going to sleep at all. Some nights he knew were going to be rough before they even started, and this was one of them. His mind wasn’t going to shut down anytime soon.

Pete sat down in the middle of the roof, then decided laying down would be a better idea and turned his gaze to the sky. It was wasn’t quite black, more of a dark blue due to the lights of the city getting caught in the clouds of smaug from too many buildings being built too close together. He wished he could see the stars. Or that he had asked Patrick to stay. Looking at the sky is so much more melancholy when you’re alone.

Eventually, he may have dozed off. The sky gradually got lighter, and at some point the pigeons began to coo and Pete picked himself off the roof and headed inside, rubbing the crick out of his neck. If he looked like death, no one said anything.


	3. 2006

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early-mid 2006

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited by my gf, so theoretically all of the grammar and spelling mistakes have been caught but I make no promises

Pete sighed again, opening his eyes to the black shapes of his room that looked exactly the same as they had an hour ago, and the hour before that. He was restless, he was tired, and his mind was not being good to him. The phone on his bedside table blinked with an unanswered message, and not one from the person he wanted.

Ashlee Simpson was great. He could see himself falling in love with her easily, but she wasn’t the person he needed to talk to right now. He couldn’t unload all this on her; it would chase her away before he could get a chance to convince her to stay.

He wasn’t sure if he could actually talk to the one person he really wanted to. It wasn’t that he and Patrick were fighting, exactly, but it kind of felt like it. There was no huge blowup (at least not one bigger than usual) and when he texted or called him Patrick still answered eventually, but conversation was stilted and leaving them alone in a room didn’t feel as comfortable as it used to. It felt just as unfamiliar as his new house in LA that still had boxes set up in the hallway, casting eerie shadows that he tripped over whenever he got out of bed at night.

The worst part was that no one else seemed to notice it except him. Joe and Andy were oblivious, which was fine, because he supposed you’d have to be looking for it to notice the awkwardness because Pete hadn’t exactly changed how he interacted with Patrick face-to-face, but it didn’t feel right to call him at 3 AM anymore, or to text him about a dog he saw on the street, or tell him truthfully how much he missed him.

Pete didn’t even know why.

(That’s a lie. Pete did know why, he just didn’t like to think about it.)

He sighed and sat up, glad for the cold air brushing his skin. He was overheating and his mouth was dry and he needed water and to get up and move and try to forget everything.

He stubbed his toe on a box in the hallway and hobbled the rest of the way to the kitchen, using one hand to feel along the wall so he didn’t get lost and run into even more things. The change of scenery was something that he needed, but moving in wasn’t something he enjoyed. It made him feel even more like he didn’t actually have a place to call home and that he was alone, especially now that the person he used to call home wasn’t exactly talking to him.

Pete ran into another stack of boxes and swore heavily. The top one tipped over and spilled its contents over the dining room floor, scattering clothes everywhere. He groaned and barely resisted the urge to kick the pile of clothing with his stubbed toe, instead bending down to throw the articles back into the box a bit harder than necessary. Jeans, hoodie, underwear, shirt--

Shirt that didn’t belong to him.

Pete reached for the light switch blindly and managed to smack it on, squinting against the bright light as it burned his eyes. He forced himself to open them, though, and inspected the offending piece of gray cloth in his hands.

It was Patrick’s. Pete had stolen it a few months ago when he had forgotten to do his own laundry on the bus and just never gave it back. Patrick had never exactly asked, so he hadn’t seen a reason to. Pete had always liked to keep little pieces of Patrick around. It helped him when he got lonely.

Pete wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry, because he was the biggest cliché in the world and once he brought the shirt up to his face and found that it still smelled very faintly of the singer he slipped it on, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as if willing the fabric to envelope him in a hug.

Pete wanted a Patrick hug. Patrick always gave him really good hugs: he wasn’t too tall, he wasn’t too boney, and when Pete really needed it, he never let go first and let him hang on for minutes at a time. Patrick was by far his favorite hugger, but Patrick was his favorite person to cuddle or touch or be around in general. Well, he used to be.

Patrick had never been as touchy-feely as Pete, because Pete was one of the clingiest people in the world, but he had always put up with Pete’s cuddling and touching before. He still did, but he stiffened more than he used to, and it was uncomfortable and unnerving. It made Pete want to collapse in on himself.

All of this because he had been stupidstupid _stupid_ and kissed him.

Pete actually did kick the box with his stubbed toe now, swearing at the flood of pain that hit him.

It was stupid, but at the time the kiss had seemed like a harmless idea. It had seemed right, fitting, like the most natural thing in the world. They had just gotten off stage after a really, really good show and he was pumped up and euphoric and still riding the post-show high and, instead of going for the cheek like usual, he had kissed Patrick right on the lips.

Pete had known it was a mistake as soon as their lips touched. Patrick tensed and pushed away and Pete laughed to cover up how he felt a little dead inside, because Patrick’s face was a mix of confusion and shock and what was probably revulsion.

“ _Pete_ ,” he complained. “What was that for?”

“Just wanted to show how much I appreciate you, Pattycakes.”

Patrick had snorted, shook his head, and went off to shower.

Pete had made out with his friends when he was drunk loads of times. There was even an ongoing joke that you had to make out with Pete at a party before you were truly a part of the label. This wasn’t just one of his friends, though. This was Patrick, and Pete was sober at the time, and it was just a peck on the lips but somehow that made it ten times worse when Patrick rejected it.

It would be fine if things could just go back to how they were, but he knew that Patrick still thought about it every time Pete went over to him now, and that made _him_ think about it, and it’s messy because he thought he was supposed to be in love with Patrick but he really just doesn’t know anymore.

Pete moved on to the kitchen, leaving some of the clothes spewed across the floor. He’d pick them up later, but now he just wanted a glass of water and his notebook. He didn’t have any alcohol in the house yet, and he couldn’t find the motivation to go out and get some.

The water was cold, and it helped to cut through the dark cloud in his brain to get a comprehensive thought. He dug through a box to find one of his notebooks and something to write with. Pen, pencil, crayon, it didn’t matter. He just needed to get the words out.

Pete sat down at the table and began to write, spilling phrases about baby-blue eyes and old shirts. He wondered if Patrick would know it was about him when the singer constructed a melody for it.


	4. 2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> late 2010

Pete hated his living room.

He hated the TV and the curtains on the windows that Ashlee had picked out and the coffee table he could see his reflection in during the day and shadows they all cast on the floor that he had memorized at this point.

He hated that he had to sleep in it _again_ rather than getting into bed beside his wife.

The bedroom door closed down the hall, and Pete honestly wished Ashlee had slammed it instead. They had been yelling earlier, so it wasn’t like Bronx hadn’t already been woken. Of course, Ashlee had claimed the responsibility of quieting him before Pete had a chance to. He wished she hadn’t. Bronx was one of the people who actually liked him, and Pete would have appreciated getting to soothe him. It probably would have done Pete some good, too.

He couldn’t even remember what they had started arguing about. All his knew was that at some point it moved from a petty dispute to personal attacks to him having to sleep on the couch again.

He knew that tomorrow he would get up early (like he would sleep anyway) and make Ashlee and Bronx breakfast as an apology, along with giving a verbal one, and then it’d be back to normal and they’d be okay, but he also knew that this would happen again in a month, or even a week, and unless something changed it would fall apart from under them.

He loved Ashlee, he really did, and he thought she loved him, too. A separation was not what he wanted at all, but he knew there were times when she thought about it. He could see it when they argued, and sometimes he caught her deep in thought, looking at him like she was trying to gauge whether it was a good idea to stick around.

He hoped he was reading too much into it, but for once he was pretty sure he wasn’t just being paranoid; this marriage probably wouldn’t last too much longer.

At least Bronx wouldn’t have to grow up in a house with two parents always fighting. That couldn’t be healthy for him.

He hated this. He hated the lumps in the couch and the taste of bile in the back of his throat and how Bronx always started crying and Pete couldn’t comfort him and the look on Ashlee’s face that let him know that there was no way they would ever work out, _ever_ , and he hated that everyone always left him because he pushed them to the point that they couldn’t stand to be around him.

He just wanted someone who wouldn’t mind all of his crappy jokes, who didn’t get scared by all of the things going on in his head, who didn’t just listen to the music but could understand it and what he was trying to say, and who could get him out of his moods with a firm word when he needed it but wasn’t overly demanding or cruel when they did: someone who could help him quiet everything down and get to sleep at night.

_Patrick_ , the voice in his head whispered, _you want Patrick._

Honestly, the realization wasn’t as profound or dramatic as it maybe should have been, but it had been a while since he’d seen Patrick and he missed him, so much more than he had thought he would when they were arguing all the time and the band decided to go on hiatus. Of course, in the back of his mind, he had thought that they would be talking to each other more, not just sending short messages and snippets of music or words through. Even those had become a bit few and far between because of Patrick’s work on his solo album.

Pete looked at the phone he had discarded on the coffee table and wondered if Patrick would pick up even though it was the middle of the night. That hadn’t stopped him before, but that was years ago. He had gotten better at handling everything since then and hadn’t needed to call for a while.

He didn’t _need_ to call now, exactly, but he wanted to. Patrick always made him feel better.

He still had Patrick’s number memorized (he made a point to memorize the numbers of people close to him in case he was without his phone and needed them), and before he was even aware of it he was holding the phone to his ear and hearing it ring on the other end.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._ “Hello?”

Pete hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until he let it out.

“Hey Patrick.”

“Pete?” the singer asked, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it? What’s wrong?” There was a shifting sound on the other end, then “It’s 2:30. What’s up?”

“Sorry, I just--missed you, I guess.”

“Oh. I miss you too, but you could have called me during the day.” He paused. “Is there something else, or should I stop pressing? Because I’m fine with talking to you about random stuff, but you haven’t called me at night in a long time.”

Pete considered what to say for a moment, because he didn’t exactly want to talk about his wife and their marital problems with Patrick, but it might be nice to get off his chest and Patrick always understood.

“Ashlee is having me sleep on the couch again. This happens a lot,” he said bluntly. “I’m not exactly sure how we’re going to get it to stop happening.”

“That sucks, man,” Patrick sympathized. “Have you tried talking to her about it? Explicitly?”

Pete sighed.

“We’ve tried. I guess it didn’t really help.”

“Try again.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“So how’s your music coming?” Pete asked, and suddenly everything was back to normal and they were both in familiar territory. Patrick started chattering away and Pete felt some of the tension drain out of his shoulders.

He had really missed hearing Patrick’s voice, especially when he was talking about music. Patrick basically was music. Hearing him describe a synth part he wanted or how the melody for one of his songs sounded sadder than it should right now was refreshing and brought him back to an earlier time, when they were just starting out and he was hanging on Patrick’s every word because this kid was going to take them places. He supposed in a way he still was that person, and Patrick still was that kid, but things were different now. They had grown up a bit and were supposed to be responsible. Pete got married and had a kid. Patrick was branching out and doing his own thing. So it was the same, but… not. It didn’t bother Pete as much as it would have before.

After music, the conversation shifted to pointless topics like sports to baby animals to which book accurately describes the struggle of the human condition. Pete didn’t even notice that he had been getting tired until his eyes were closed and Patrick’s words were just drifting through his mind like dandelion fluff on a summer breeze.

“Pete? Pete, are you still there?”

“Mmmhm,” he replied. Patrick sounded far away as he chuckled.

“I’m going to hang up now, okay? I’ll talk to you later.”

“M’kay,” he mumbled.

“Goodnight, Pete. Sleep well.”

“Night Trick.” The sound of a phone being hung up went unnoticed. Pete’s phone slipped out of his hand and he sighed deeply as sleep overtook him and he fell into a quiet dream.


	5. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> late 2012

It felt really good to be writing again.

That’s not entirely accurate. Pete was always writing, always scribbling down some sort of lyrics or phrases or confessions from the corner of his mind, even if he knew he would never use them in a song because they just wouldn’t work.

It felt good to be writing with the band again. It felt good to hear his words to Patrick’s melodies, to have Joe and Andy tweaking it with suggestions until the song was perfect, to finally get back into the studio and hear music made from his band again. He knew the style and flair of Joe and Patrick’s guitar playing and Andy’s drumming so well that he would probably be able to pick them out of a lineup if he had to, and having his bass parts fit in like a puzzle piece felt like coming home.

In the end, the hiatus was a good thing, because it reminded Pete how much he loved Fall Out Boy and how he couldn’t be as happy without it. He knew the others felt the same. When he got the call to come back, he ended up running around the house with his hands in the air because he couldn’t contain his joy. It was maybe a bit over the top, but he had missed them. Skype calls and phone conversations were fine, but it felt good to actually be able to hug them all and know that he would be seeing them tomorrow, and the day after.

“No more emo hair? Is this is a permanent change, or will you let your true self be expressed later?” Andy asked after their hug.

“Nah, the emo hair is done. I’m not sad anymore,” Pete grinned. “What about yours? I like it short. Makes you look older and more likely to kick someone’s ass.” Andy laughed.

“Yeah, I like it short, too.” Then Joe shouted Pete’s name and enveloped him in a hug that was all curly afro and grinning teeth and Pete thought he was so happy he would burst. Getting a hug from Patrick next almost made him.

They all needed a bit of time to readjust. They’d all been playing with other bands that had done things differently, and it took a few runs to get back into the swing of things and find the vibe again. Pete didn’t mind. He enjoyed seeing how the others had grown and developed while they were away. By the end of the first day in the studio, they really hadn’t gotten much done, but they were all smiling and ready to make more progress the next day.

Pete rode his good mood all the way to the hotel they were all staying at. They got out of the studio really late, and had scheduled an early start tomorrow. Pete kind of wanted to go out and celebrate, or stay up and marathon all his favorite movies (All Of Them), but he was pretty sure the rest of the band would not be pleased if he turned up tomorrow struggling to keep his eyes open and/or hungover.

The band parted ways after the elevator, but their rooms were all relatively close by and Pete took comfort in that. He liked being physically close to them again. His hotel room wasn’t fancy, but it was much better than the cheap motels they used to stay in before their songs were on the radio, and he could order pizza and watch HBO while he waited. He briefly considered asking one of the others (or all of the others) to come eat with him when the pizza finally got there, because eating alone in a hotel room was depressing, but decided against it. It was late. They had probably gotten something already, and they had been cooped up with him for the entire day. _I should ease them back into it,_ he thought, amused. _Gotta break them in gently again._

Someone probably would come if he called, but they were probably getting ready to sleep and he didn’t want to bother them. The pizza tasted just as good as it would have if they were there, because pizza always tastes good no matter who you share with. _Game of Thrones_ always looks good, too, but after eating and watching a bit he still felt ready to run out of his skin. The energy from earlier in the day hadn’t worn off at all.

He also probably shouldn’t have had a Redbull with his pizza, but he was an adult who made his own bad decisions and it was the only thing he had on hand to drink.

Pete hopped in the shower, hoping the hot spray might help him relax, and it did, but only to an extent. He still wasn’t ready to sleep when he got out, and he wasn’t willing to lie in bed for an undetermined amount of time staring at the ceiling while he tried to force it. He couldn’t stay cooped up in the room, either, as there wasn’t really anything else to do and he was getting more restless.

Pete threw on a hoodie and almost forgot shoes before he stepped out the door. The hotel had a lounge open 24/7; maybe there’d be some Faulkner to read. That always put him to sleep.

When Pete got to the lounge, he was a bit surprised to find one of the chairs occupied, and even more surprised by who was occupying it.

“Patrick?” he asked. The fedora-wearing man looked up from a sudoku puzzle and smiled.

“Hey Pete,” he replied. “Guess I wasn’t the only one unable to sleep.”

“Guess not.” Pete sat down in the chair next to him. “Do you think the others are up?”

“Nah, you know how Joe is. He could sleep anywhere at any time, and Andy would make himself go to sleep by sheer force of will.” Pete laughed, because Patrick was completely right. Man, he had missed those two.

Patrick put down his suduko and faced Pete head on.

“They have Jenga over there. Wanna play?” Patrick was notoriously good at Jenga. Pete was not.

In hindsight, they probably should have chosen a quieter game, but the woman at the greeter's desk seemed more amused at their hullabaloo than annoyed so Pete counted it as a win. Besides, it was always fun trying to distract Patrick and make him mess up. (It didn’t work, because when Patrick was focused on a particular task for a while he was focused, but it was still fun).

The next time Pete checked the clock, it was 2 in the morning and he was actually yawning. They had completely lost track of how many games they had played, because after Jenga they moved on to Sorry, then just various card games. Patrick caught his yawn and grinned. Pete was suddenly hit by how young he seemed.

“I suppose it’s time to go to bed,” he said, and Pete nodded through another yawn. His fatigue hit him all at once, like a car crash. Patrick laughed. Pete had really missed Patrick’s laugh.

The younger man gathered the cards and stuck a rubber band around them, then stood and gestured towards the elevator. Pete followed him and they rode the elevator in comfortable silence. A few years ago, Pete would have leaned on Patrick and maybe stuck his nose into the crook of his neck to breath him in. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to now, so he leaned against the back of the elevator at an acceptable distance and focused on how tired he was instead.

Pete was sad when the short elevator ride ended. It was nice to have a few moments to just breathe the same air as Patrick. The walk to his hotel door was even shorter, but Patrick was yawning by then, too, so it was definitely time to turn in.

“See you tomorrow,” Patrick said.

“See you today,” Pete replied, and Patrick smiled again.

“Goodnight, Pete.”

“Good morning, Patrick.”


	6. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2014

It was possible that Pete had not thought this through when he said that the Young Blood Chronicles was a good idea and jumped in with two feet.

It was a great idea, and he was really excited to see the finished product and the fruit of everyone’s labors, but maybe he should have thought through the part where he and Patrick kill each other.

He knew that it was fake, because he had to go through multiple days of fight choreography with Patrick and because when they were filming it they messed up a few times and started laughing uncontrollably and had to go on water break. He knew that fake-him wasn’t even killing/being killed by fake-Patrick, but rather fake-demon-being-that-kind-of-possessed-Patrick. It was still an image he couldn’t get out of his head, though. Patrick was a good actor, much better than Pete, and he had looked absolutely vicious and definitely set on blood.

“Pete!” Patrick said, snapping Pete out of his thoughts. The singer stood with a t-shirt and pyjama pants on, toweling off his damp hair, eyes drawn together in concern. They both had rinsed off on the set, but Pete let Patrick have the first shower at the hotel because he had more fake blood, especially around where he had to wear the hook.

“You okay, man?” Patrick asked, standing at the foot of the bed.

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head a bit like he could expel the image of Patrick, bloody and vengeful, from his mind. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”

“Okay,” Patrick said in the voice that really meant he wasn’t convinced it was okay at all. “Well, I’m done now, so wash up and we’ll turn in early, alright? I left you all of the hot water.”

“Thanks,” Pete said, trying to muster up a smile. It probably didn’t work, so he grabbed what he needed from his suitcase and ducked into the bathroom.

Pete spent more time under the hot spray than he normally would. He could still feel dust under his fingernails and in his lungs, even when he inhaled as much steam as he could to try and chase it out. He could feel the fake blood, too, because that stuff was sticky as hell.

_It’s fake it’s fake it’s fake_ , he repeated. He knew logically that nothing from the shoot that day had been real, but he was having trouble convincing his mind. Every once in awhile it would get away from him and hit him with something like this. Patrick looked so angry. Pete had to pretend to stab him and then he died. Pete killed his best friend. Patrick saved his life more than once and Pete killed him.

_It’sfakeit’sfakeit’sfake._

He shut off the water and ripped away the curtain, putting on his clothes before he was completely dry. He was being ridiculous. He could separate fiction from reality. Patrick was sitting on a bed in the hotel room right outside the bathroom door, and neither of them were going to go crazy and kill the other any time soon.

“Pete? Are you sure you’re okay?” Patrick asked through the door, his knock making Pete jump and realize just how long he was taking.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute,” he called back, clearing his throat. He considered not bothering to brush his teeth, but decided he needed to take better care of them and did so anyway. The constant rhythm gave him something to focus on, too, and the fresh feeling helped him feel a bit lighter after the dirt and heat of the day. Filming a fight scene in Death Valley while wearing skinny jeans got really hot. Eventually, though, he couldn’t hide in the bathroom anymore and had to step out to face the hardest part of the night: the moments before he actually fell asleep when he was left alone with his thoughts.

“Hey.” Patrick looked up from where he was reading on his bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, let’s just go to bed,” Pete replied, burrowing under the covers and turning on his side.

“Okay. I’m here if you change your mind.” Patrick turned off the light, and Pete waited to fall unconscious.

\--/--

_The desert sun beat down on the pair fighting below it. What had started as a chase was coming to a close in the center of a ring of odd people, and all over a briefcase that they had never even asked for._

_Patrick swiped at him with the rusted hook that had replaced his hand, and Pete barely flinched away in time. Patrick’s eyes were an unnatural yellow, like the food dye they had used that one time they decided to frost cupcakes years ago. Patrick had actually frosted a pretty good flower on one. Yellow flowers made Pete feel happier, but the yellow in his friend’s eyes only heightened the fear in his own._

_Patrick lunged again, and Pete was faced with the realization that he was not going to stop. As long as Pete was still alive, it was possible for him to keep the briefcase from Patrick. He was an obstacle that could not be ignored anymore, and Patrick wouldn’t rest until he had been killed. Pete would have to fight back or die._

_They struggled more, and at some point the briefcase left Pete’s hand and they landed on the dirt, Pete trying to dodge more and Patrick trying to get in that final blow. Patrick’s fighting style was reckless and ferocious. He barely seemed to register when he got hurt, only focusing on hurting Pete. Patrick usually had a better sense of self-preservation._

_Pete didn’t know how it happened, but somehow his bass sword embedded itself in Patrick’s side. There was less blood than he would have thought, but that barely had time to register before Patrick’s eyes faded back to a light blue._

_“...Pete?” he wheezed._

_“Patrick? Patrick, hang on. I didn’t mean to. Patrick, I didn’t mean to!” he stuttered frantically, but Patrick wasn’t listening. His eyes glazed, looking beyond Pete’s shoulder instead of focusing on his face._

_“You killed me, Pete,” he whispered. “I saved you and you killed me.”_

_“No. No, Patrick, please! Patrick!”_

_“You killed me, Pete.”_

“Pete!”

_Pete brought a hand to Patrick’s face, willing him to keep his eyes open. His hand was covered in blood._

“Pete! Wake up!”

Pete woke up with a gasp, eyes flying open, absorbing only darkness. He was covered in sweat and took a gasp of air. Something shifted beside his bed, and he could barely make out the shape of a human being.

“It’s okay, Pete. It was just a dream. We’re all okay,” Patrick said. His voice was soothing. Patrick should record an album of lullabies. Pete would be the first in line to buy it.

“You’re okay?” he asked, turning to look at the figure.

“Yes, I’m okay. Are you?”

Pete didn’t answer for a moment, and Patrick waited. Pete had always liked that about Patrick. He didn’t push when he shouldn’t.

“I had a nightmare,” he said finally. “It was about the Young Blood Chronicles, except I really was Fake Pete and you really were Fake Demon Patrick. You didn’t kill me, but I still killed you, except you weren’t a demon at the end, you were just Patrick, and I killed you.”

“Pete, I’m right here,” Patrick said, putting a hand on Pete’s arm. “I’m fine. You didn’t kill me. You’d never hurt me. I know that, and you always say that I know you better than you know yourself.”

Pete turned away, even though he couldn’t actually see the singer in the darkness.

“You’ve done so much for me, Patrick. I don’t know where I would be without you, and if something were to happen to you because of me--”

“It won’t. Nothing is going to happen to me, especially not because of you. Trust me, please,” Patrick said. Pete turned back towards him.

“You don’t understand! Patrick, I literally would not be here without you. You saved me more times than I can count, and all I’ve ever done is be a burden. I’m like a parasite.”

Patrick flicked on the light, blinding Pete momentarily.

“It works the other way around, too, you know,” Patrick said, voice quiet yet still demanding to be heard, like a whisper in a library. “Maybe not in the exact same way, or to the exact same extreme, but you’ve helped me just as much as I’ve helped you, and I know for a fact that there are pictures on the internet where you’re looking away and I’m smiling at you like you’re the sun, moon, and stars. I’ve seen them. I remember what I was thinking when they were taken. Don’t sell yourself short, Pete.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, dropping his gaze. Patrick was staring at him intensely, the way he stares at a new music score someone hands him. Pete couldn’t read his expression and it was making his heart and stomach do weird flips.

“Hey, look at me,” the singer said softly. Pete didn’t want to, but Patrick had a way of making him do a lot of things he didn’t want to. “You are not a burden. You are not allowed to think that anymore, okay? You have been nothing but a positive presence in my life since you entered it, and you will continue to be a positive presence in my life, even when we’re 100 years old and sitting in rocking chairs in a nursing home.”

“Okay,” Pete whispered.

“Trust me, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Pete replied. Patrick smiled in a way that made Pete feel like he was a little kid who had just said he was going to live on the moon when he was older.

“Now I don’t think you understand, so I’m going to do something to make sure there’s no confusion, okay?” Patrick said. Pete furrowed his eyebrows.

“Okay.”

Patrick put his hands on Pete’s cheeks, leaned forward, and kissed him.

“Oh,” Pete said. Patrick laughed. It was a light sound that lifted his heart.

“That’s the kind of love I was talking about,” Patrick clarified.

“You realize that half the songs I write are about you, right?” he asked, sitting up with new energy. “‘G.i.n.a.s.f.s.’ is one of them. That song is definitely about you, because I love you like that, too. I have for a long time.”

“That’s comforting,” Patrick said, then stood up and kissed him again. Pete held on to his shirt and ended up breaking the kiss because he was smiling. Patrick loved him. After _years_ of secretly pining away in the back of his mind, Patrick loved him, too.

“We have a full day tomorrow and need to sleep,” Patrick said, pulling away and reaching for the light.

“Wait,” Pete said. Patrick paused. “Hotel beds are made for two people. Will you sleep with me tonight? Like, actually sleep, all cloths on? Unless you want to do the other kind, in which case sure, why not, but--”

Patrick kissed him again, and Pete decided that if they were ever arguing and Patrick tried that to get him to be quiet, Patrick would definitely win, hands down.

“Yes, I’ll actually sleep with you, clothes on,” Patrick laughed. “We can do the other kind when we don’t have anything going on in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” Pete grinned. “That sounds good to me.” He watched Patrick turn off the light, then felt him slip under the covers next to him. He reached out and pulled himself closer until his face was nestled in the crook of Patrick’s neck and the singer’s arms were around him.

“Is this okay?” he asked. They had slept closer many times before the hiatus, squished into one of their bunks because Pete was having one of his many bad nights, but that had been years ago. Things had changed. What if he was overstepping already?

“More than,” Patrick hummed happily, adjusting his grip slightly to make it more comfortable for both of them. Pete smiled.

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

“Goodnight, Pete. Sleep well.”

He did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this one, folks. Special thanks to my gf for editing. Shoutout to the wonderful girl I wrote this for. Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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